And then, André, unable to endure the misery longer, without a syllable of explanation or justification, left her.
Denise’s eye fell on the note from the woman who she felt had ruined her life and his. For one minute she held it in her fingers. Her friends would give much for this damning evidence of his guilt. If she desired revenge, here was the chance; and she was, alas! racked by the jealousy and curiosity of a woman who loved and had been rejected; but it was only for a moment that she wavered, then with a proud sadness tore the note into fragments and threw them on the fire. Not till the last had been burnt did she take refuge in the hopeless loneliness of her own room.
“Mon Dieu!” exclaimed Madame de Pompadour, as André stepped from behind the curtains of the secret door, “Mon Dieu! my friend, I am not the devil, that you should look at me like that.”
“Madame,” André replied, “I am here to receive your commands.”
A jest, a taunt, a direct question, hovered on the lady’s lips. But after another searching look, instead she held out a hand of swift and strong sympathy.
“Courage, Vicomte,” she said softly, “do not despair. I am not beaten yet, nor are you. No woman can forget a man’s loyalty, certainly not I.”
Madame de Pompadour was a selfish and ambitious woman, yet to a few such nature has granted the mysterious power of expressing in word and look what they do not really feel. Then, as always in her unique career, it proved the most potent of her many gifts.
“I thank you, Marquise,” André replied, deeply touched.
“You have heard the news,” she said, wisely returning to business. “Yes? Could anything be worse? But thank Heaven the messenger was carrying only public despatches. Had it been one of the King’s secrets you and I would not be talking here.”